


Spike

by coyote_nebula



Series: Minefield [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Brotherly Love, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Nothing graphic it's all implied, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Protective Jason Todd, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake-centric, not between main characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27906880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyote_nebula/pseuds/coyote_nebula
Summary: The silence was heavy. Tim could feel the next questions coming, because both of them had spoken to too many victims to be clueless about this sort of thing.Tim breathed deep. He would spare Bruce from having to ask.“I, um. I was... fourteen.”--Past trauma unexpectedly reenters Tim's life.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Series: Minefield [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044210
Comments: 34
Kudos: 724
Collections: Jason and Tim Enemy-to-Caretaker, Tim Drake and Red Robin Stories





	Spike

**Author's Note:**

> The tags tell you what you need to know.  
> So, every time casual drink-spiking goes on in this fandom, although usually with benign intentions, this is what pops into my head.

**_Then._ **

Tim watched old Mrs. Pernduco leer at one of the Vale boys, her chunky rings flashing in the light of his parents’ chandelier. Vale— that was Charlie, he thought— leaned away with an awkward smile and frightened eyes as she clawed his lapel closer. Her blueish curls bounced with a loud laugh, oblivious— or maybe indifferent— to his discomfort. 

Someone across the room called for Charlie, who all but tore away from his captor without so much as a lame excuse.

Tim edged a little deeper into the shadow of the houseplant he was hiding in. Mrs. Pernduco was already looking for her next victim, and he’d been grabbed once already tonight. Old lady perfume  _ still _ clung to his suit jacket. Just the memory of the offensive cloud made him want to gag.

He was missing patrol for this.

Tim sighed, peering through the crowd at his parents. They were apparently still having a great time celebrating their latest archeological achievement. Tomorrow they had to leave again, something about a new project. They’d promised an early breakfast with Tim beforehand at least.

Tim was happy for them, of course. He was also unbearably  _ bored _ . Bruce was on an urgent case, and Dick was in Bludhaven, so there wasn’t any entertainment in the form of the exaggerated Wayne socialite act. Just the real socialites. Which were a lot less amusing. 

Another thirty minutes and he could probably get away with turning in for the night. He’d already made a circuit, saying hello to all the right people and giving polite answers about his parents, school, and his last growth spurt. Not to mention getting his cheeks pinched (all four of them) by Mrs. Pernduco. He’d spent the last ten minutes tucked next to the ficus, close enough to the group of real estate moguls chatting nearby to look socially occupied.

“Well hello, Timothy, fancy meeting you here.”

Fortunately, the guy grinning down at him, two glasses in hand, was more tolerable than the rest— Rex Manchester. The CEO of PinTech was in the habit of seeking Tim out at these things for a conversation on the latest core architectures or new encryption algorithms. He didn’t seem to like  _ mingling  _ much either, so together they managed to pass the time.

Tim offered a real smile. “Hey, Rex. I was, you know.  _ In the neighborhood,” _ he said, gesturing around at his parents’ house.

“What a coincidence. Roy Rogers?” Rex asked, offering one of the glasses.

“Sure. Thanks.” Tim sipped while Rex stuffed the free hand in his pocket and turned towards the guests. They people-watched in companionable silence for a bit.

“You tried out the Mojave chipset yet?”

Tim snorted. “I wish. The waiting list is already like ten miles long.”

Rex smiled slyly into his glass. “I’ve got an extra sample from Fox, if you?...”

“Are you kidding?  _ Yes!” _

They talked for a while more about specs and applications, waving at acquaintances and avoiding eye contact with Pernduco, until their glasses were empty.

Tim yawned. There was a casefile he intended to spend a couple hours on before bed, but he found his eyes getting heavy despite the earliness of the night. Usually his messed up sleep schedule kept him awake until at least one. It was only nine-thirty.

Rex noticed him rubbing a hand across his eyes with some amusement. “We’re not keeping you up, are we?”

Another wide yawn made his jaw crack. One of the real estate suits backed into him mid-yawn, unexpectedly pushing him off balance. The room spun; a firm grim around his arm steadied him.

Rex studied him with sudden concern. “You alright there, kid?”

“I think my last cup of coffee just wore off,” Tim muttered apologetically. “I’d better turn in. It’s been good seeing you, Rex.”

“Likewise, Timmy— whoa!”

A hand around his elbow caught him mid-stagger. Jeez, when  _ was  _ the last time he’d slept?

“Maybe I’d better see you to your room? Don’t want you to take a spill.”

Tim shrugged. As long as the intoxicating vision of his bed became reality he didn’t much care how.

“Come on, then. Lead the way.”

——

They materialized just inside Tim’s room. His bed. Cheek to pillow. A heavy sigh.

The familiar  _ click  _ of his door softly shutting.

——

A weight, heavy and slow, sinking into the mattress beside him.

——

Tim overslept. His parents had already flown out. 

He was sick, and sore, although he couldn’t quite recall why.

——

Tim recalled why.

——

Tim called Alfred. He said he’d come down with something and wouldn’t be helping out in the  _ basement  _ for a few days.

No one questioned him, and Tim never told.

——

**_Now._ **

Tim scrubbed his face, carefully keeping his splinted finger out of the way.  _ Nothing  _ made sense about this case. Something was  _ missing _ . Probably, a  _ lot  _ was missing. But  _ what? _

He groaned, pouring his exhaustion and frustration into the long sound. This needed more footwork. He could manage that with the broken finger and the cracked ribs, but the walking boot and the wrenched shoulder presented more of a problem. They were his penalty for being too slow to solve the case, courtesy of Killer Croc.

Blindly, he brought his mug to his lips and found it empty.

He set it back on the batcomputer’s desktop with a rough clatter and sunk his head into his hands. His body  _ ached _ just thinking about hobbling to the elevator, down the hall, into the kitchen, to the coffeemaker, back down the hall, into the elevator, to the computer again. The stabbing headache choked his whine. It was too much. He wasn’t good enough for this, he wasn’t—

A sharp  _ thunk  _ startled him. Beside his old mug was a steaming,  _ blessedly full _ cup of coffee.

He clutched it to his chest and looked up with stinging, bloodshot eyes.

“Hey there, Timmers,” Jason said, wryly scanning Tim’s hunched form. “Thought you could use a top-off.”

Tim drank deep, let the warmth buoy him back from the brink of despair. “Thanks,” he rasped. 

Jason leaned back against the desk, arms crossed. Tim could feel his eyes watching as he stared at the screen, searching for the connection that would shine a light.

“Have you slept  _ this century,  _ kid?”

Tim didn’t answer. Just sucked the cup dry. He could sleep when there  _ wasn’t  _ a serial killer out there targeting young boys.

Somewhere. The solution had to be  _ here  _ because he was in no shape to put the mask on, and everyone else had already called it a night. He’d staunchly refused Bruce  _ and _ Alfred’s admonishments to get to bed. As if he  _ could  _ sleep. As if the images of tiny bloodied bodies wouldn’t haunt his mind or his dreams. 

He couldn’t let anyone else  _ die _ because he was too  _ stupid  _ to figure out the answer, he couldn’t...

A warm hand curled around his forehead, and he realized that he’d drooped close to the countertop, eyes fallen shut.

“Come on, baby bird. Bedtime.”

“Nnn,” Tim moaned. No. The case—

“Yeah, yeah. Easy. Watch the leg.”

_ No _ .

The coffee.

Tim whirled desperately in Jason’s hands, tearing away, but his feet refused to work. He stumbled several steps before falling hard on his bad shoulder with a sharp cry of pain.

“ _ Shit _ , Tim—“

——

Tim was draped in Jason’s arms when he glimpsed his room. His bed.

He whined. Gasped in panic.  _ No. _

“Shh, baby bird—“

But he was trapped in his own body, and there was nothing he could do.

——

“Oh, shit. Uh. Shh, Tim, it’s just me, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Tim felt weight settle on the mattress and cried harder.

——

Mid-morning, Bruce found Jason sitting in the hall with his back to Tim’s bedroom door, elbows resting on his knees and his head tilted into a palm. His creased eyes turned up at Bruce’s approach, hard but reddened.

“...I think I fucked up.”

——

Tim slept fitfully, unable to ignore the pain but unable to break the surface of drugged unconsciousness.

Fingers carded through his hair. He jerked away.

——

Bruce was there when the drugs finally released Tim.

The blackout curtains were parted just enough to let a rosy sliver of light in, enough for the book in his lap. Evening? Or morning?

Bruce answered Tim’s groggy blink with a half smile. “Evening, Tim,” he said, voice deep and soothing. “How do you feel?”

He licked dry lips. “Better than yesterday.”

Bruce gave a nod. There was a long pause. “And how do you…  _ feel?” _

Tim struggled to remember the night before, because for  _ Bruce _ to start asking emotionally astute questions it had to be bad.

He’d been on that case for the thirty-sixth or thirty-seventh hour, and…

Oh.

Tim clenched his jaw for a moment, sudden  _ rage  _ warring with a spike of primal fear.

Jason. Jason had roofied him, and brought him here, and… he didn’t remember after that. Except for crying his eyes out like a little kid.  _ That  _ he did remember.

He swallowed. “Jason drugged my coffee,” he bit out.

Bruce shut the book softly and laid it on the nightstand. “Yes.”

“And…” So much was a blank. “Put me to bed?”

Bruce leaned on his elbows, a sigh foreshadowing an incoming Difficult Conversation. He hesitated before leveling a grave expression at Tim.

“Did he hurt you?”

Momentarily stunned by the question— because that was one of  _ Batman’s  _ questions, one he’d heard asked of more than one traumatized child— Tim froze, a reflexive  _ No  _ on the tip of his tongue. It was surreal to be on  _ this  _ side of the conversation, not as Robin, but as  _ Tim. _

He was sore and achy from Croc. But he didn’t hurt anywhere  _ new.  _ And despite being  _ pissed  _ at the breach of trust, he knew Jason to be a (begrudgingly) protective brother. Now, anyway. They were long past the violent early days, but even then his MO was murder, not....

Tim cleared his throat to clear the awkward air. “I don’t think so.”

Bruce nodded. “I don’t think so either. Or I would be…  _ handling _ … that.”

Tim didn’t doubt it. He relaxed. If Batman still trusted Jason, there was little cause to worry about what he  _ might  _ not remember.

“Nonetheless, he’s facing discipline for this.”

“Okay.”

The silence was heavy. Tim could feel the next questions coming, because both of them had spoken to too many victims to be clueless about this sort of thing.

Tim breathed deep, tension making his diaphragm shudder. He would spare Bruce from having to ask. “I, um. I was... fourteen.”

Bruce looked pained but unsurprised. At least, until the age registered. Then he looked newly stricken. “You were Robin.”

Tim winced and looked away, drawing himself up to sit against the headboard. “Yeah. It was a night off. A… party. At my parents.’”

“Did your parents know?”

He shook his head, shrank a little. The secret embarrassed him, although he couldn’t quite put a finger on why. It had happened, regardless of who knew or didn’t. It had happened, and he was fine. Everything was fine. “They were out of town before I woke up.”

Bruce listened quietly. “Where was I?” he asked finally.

Tim had to speak around the sudden lump in his throat. “I stayed away,” he said hoarsely. “Called in sick. I didn’t… I didn’t want you to…”

_ To know,  _ Tim thought.  _ To know how stupid I was. _

“I wasn’t at the party? Did I not… check in on you?” And that was the self incrimination Bruce was so skilled at. Guilt stabbed Tim’s heart.

“No, it’s okay, you were in the middle of an important investigation, with Two-Face, and, and…” His eyes prickled. Because as hard as he’d worked to keep the secret, all he could think about in the days after it happened was that Brucie Wayne  _ never _ would have been so absorbed in his clueless act to fail to notice Rex Manchester leading Tim away. Alone. And he would have stepped in, flashed that predatory snarl at Rex that was so terrifying on Brucie’s normally soft, friendly face. The one that would  _ almost  _ shatter the act.

For his parents, it hadn’t even been an act. They were just clueless.

Tim wiped an eye with the heel of his hand. Bruce hadn’t been there, and that wasn’t anyone’s fault. That didn’t stop him from aching alone in that big house, licking his wounds and praying that Bruce would come despite his efforts to push him away. That he’d pick up the paper one morning to find that Rex Manchester had been found beaten within an inch of his life, and he could stop looking at every kind face like it was a viper in the grass.

He shook with the effort of containing years’ worth of heaving sobs, compressing it into a single tear dripping off his nose. It had happened. No one had been there, after, and that  _ was  _ Tim’s fault. He shouldn’t be upset about that. It was what he’d wanted, and he got it. He clenched the sheet in a shaking fist. 

Bruce moved in his periphery, then stopped abruptly. “Tim. Can I?...”

His felt his face crumple as he nodded, desperate, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Bruce sat next to him on the bed, but he wasn’t scared. This was safe. Bruce had  _ asked _ , he’d flinch away at Tim’s word, the slightest sign that he wasn’t welcome.

Tim curled into his chest, feeling strong arms tighten around him.

“I’m so sorry, Tim,” Bruce murmured into his hair. “It wasn’t your fault. I should have been there.” Anger simmered just below the surface, but not anger at Tim. He’d defend this safe space with his last breath, with no thought to  _ using  _ Tim, no thought to his own ends. His warmth was refuge. If he’d just known, he would’ve hunted Tim’s attacker down with extreme prejudice.

He still would, if that’s what Tim wanted.

The dam broke, and Bruce let him cry and cry until it was out of him, until he’d been cleansed of the loneliness and disappointment. Until the safety swallowed him up, and he slept again.

——

Bruce’s heartbeat was still under his ear, a heavy arm still draped over his back, when he woke. The blanket had been tugged all the way up to his nose, hiding him.

Which was good, because there was a visitor in the doorway, shifting on his feet, tray in hand.

“Alfred sent this,” Jason said, but he didn’t cross the threshold. “Where should I, uh?...”

“On the floor there is fine, Jay.”

Jason left.

——

Alfred’s soup was heaven on his tear-raw throat. Bruce still hadn’t left him, just picked up his book and turned on the lamp. Periodically he checked his phone. It was probably getting close to patrol time.

“Jason wants to see you,” he said finally.

Tim blew the steam from a spoonful of soup. “Where is he?”

“In the cave bathroom. Cleaning.”

Tim winced. “Harsh, B.”

“I  _ am  _ vengeance,” Bruce said dryly, which got a surprised laugh out of Tim. A few more bites of soup later, he spoke again. “You don’t have to until you’re ready.”

“It’s alright. I’ll see him, when you go.”

Bruce watched him. “You sure?”

He nodded. The sooner this was behind him, the better.

——

“I’ll wait for you,” Bruce said, nodding towards the showers. He turned to start suiting up. If all went well, the lead he was pursuing would resolve TIm’s case. Bruce made him promise to leave it alone until he got back.

When Tim limped into the bathroom, he had to stifle a laugh at the sight of Jason in elbow length rubber gloves, violently scrubbing and cursing vehemently at a patch of grout that dared defy his command to come clean.

He startled when Tim knocked on the wall, brushing sweaty curls out of his eyes with his elbow before rocking back on his haunches.

Tim looked around. “It hasn’t looked this clean since Damian wrecked the Porsche,” he observed.

Jason scoffed. “It hasn’t  _ been  _ this clean since then,” he muttered. “You’re all disgusting. Every one of you.” He resumed attacking the tiles with a brush, busying his fidgeting hands.

“So,” Jason sighed eventually, chunking the brush into the soapy pail without looking back up at Tim. “I’m an asshole. Sorry I suck.”

Tim nodded. “Yeah. You are.”

Jason frowned. “Last night. You looked ready to pass out, Alfred asked me to talk you into some sleep, and we both know how  _ that _ goes... You were going to fall and break your head or something without a babysitter, and  _ I  _ sure as hell wasn’t giving up any beauty sleep to watch you. I thought I had a win-win.” He got to his feet, a pleading twist to his eyes. “You know I’d never… I’d never do  _ that  _ to you _.  _ Right?”

Tim gave him a worn out half-smile. “I know.”

“And…” Jason looked away, looked back with glinting fury. “And if there’s someone who has… You just give me a name, baby bird. I’ll take care of it.”

Red Hood’s deadly snarl was normally the exact opposite of reassuring. But for once, Tim felt something warm spark in his chest. He shrugged lightly. “Already in prison. Embezzlement.”

A wounded look crossed Jason’s face. Tim wondered if it was the confirmation that a perpetrator existed or the implication that Hood wouldn’t  _ break into  _ prison to dispense an additional sentence. 

He pulled off the gloves and threw them in the corner, taking a calming breath. “You say the word, I’ll put them in the ground,” he said lowly.

Tim breathed a laugh, absurdly fond even though he wanted no such thing.  _ It’s the thought that counts.  _ “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jason gave him a piercing look before sighing and raising an arm in invitation. Tim took the hug, ignoring the bleach smell and the damp sleeves. Jason was almost as hulking as Bruce. He breathed out and relaxed into his brother’s grip.

“Anything else?” said Jason, not letting go. “I’ll let you land a punch, if you want. I mean, it’s the only one you’ll ever get, so…”

Tim laughed. “Whatever. I could totally take you.”

“Uh, okay. I think we’ve already established that’s  _ not  _ true, but Croc probably scrambled your brain a little so I’m gonna let that slide.”

——

When they emerged from the bathroom, Jason’s arm thrown around Tim’s shoulders, an edge of tension seemed to bleed from Batman. “All good?”

“I’ve secured the rights to Jason’s firstborn, so yes. It’s all good.”

Jason snorted. “Yeah, don’t hold your breath.”

Batman huffed. “I’ll be back, then. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”

As the roar of the Batmobile faded, Tim glanced up at Jason.

“Coffee?”

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative Title: Drugging Your Family/Friends is Uncool Behavior.


End file.
